Relative Truth
by Quartic Moose
Summary: What started as an average, everyday discovery of priceless religious art alongside a dead body quickly takes a turn for the Twilight Zone when Peter inadvertently offends a shape-shifting trickster god.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: What started as an average, everyday discovery of priceless religious art alongside a dead body quickly takes a turn for the Twilight Zone when Peter inadvertently offends a shape-shifting trickster god. A story in which parts of the past are brought to light, parts of the present are cast in shadow, Elle spends time with Satchmo, Mozzie tells the truth (and subsequently runs away), and Peter's strength of character is deliberately tested. Meanwhile, Neal might be the only one who knows what's going on.

**Significant Revision: **The TIMELINE has been moved forward; now set between 3x11 and 3x12, _Upper West Side Story_ and _Veiled Neighborhood Watch_

Rating: T, because it's about the same as what you'd see on the show

Disclaimer: The names of any real persons, living or dead, are used fictitiously and/or are a complete coincidence. The historical accuracy of any history presented cannot be guaranteed. Also, I don't own (but I think you already knew that).

Question: Is it El, or Elle? I see El most often, but Elle looks more like a name to me, even a nickname.

* * *

Special Agent Peter Burke kept a mental list of Signs that Neal is About to Do Something Stupid, and it was constantly under revision. At the top of the list (items 1-4, but see also 15b) were:

1. Neal has slipped his anklet

2. Neal is being shifty

3. Neal has lost and/or found a girl

4. Neal takes an early lunch

As Peter watched Neal through the glass wall of his office one wet Wednesday afternoon, he wondered if he needed to make another amendment. A major problem with the List was that it was formed retroactively, so he could not be sure if the new strangeness in Neal's behavior was an ominous portent or not. However, Peter was nothing if not a master of patience (two years he'd held on to that lollipop); he'd get it out of Neal, one way or another, and until then he just needed to keep a sharp eye on him and try to stop Neal's Hindenburg from leaving the ground, and maybe fend off whatever incoming icebergs he could. A quick glance at his mug confirmed his suspicions - he definitely needed more coffee if he was mixing metaphors this badly.

Neal was spending very little time at his desk. On its own, this was not very unusual; he had a tendency to wander around the office and chat with the other agents as he leaned against their desks, and Neal would rather do anything else than go through mortgage fraud files. However, not only was Neal not sitting at his desk, he was giving it a wide berth. He'd spent time at everyone else's desk, except Jones's and Blake's, and he kept his back to the windows as much as possible. Peter idly tapped his pen against his fingers; there was something significant in that thought, he just knew it. Surveying the room again (and catching sight of Neal, procrastinating in the stacks), he reviewed his observations of Neal, and a pattern emerged - Neal was avoiding the side of the room with a view of the city. Time to find out why.

He stood up to get a refill of coffee and mentally composed his newest item on The List. _Number Thirty-two: Neal avoids windows. Cross-reference with items 13 and 17, other avoidances. Action to be taken: …?_ He pursed his lips. Most likely, it was something that could _be seen_ from the windows, since he was reasonably certain Neal was not at Mozzie's acute level of paranoia and was afraid of _being seen _from the window. If he was, there would be other signs, like little tinfoil fedoras - the sound of his phone cut off his idle musings.

"This is Burke." As he listened, a small part of his mind wondered if this was what being struck by lightning felt like. "Oh my God."

* * *

It was a small group that was gathered in the conference room, mostly limited to the Harvard crew, people he trusted to keep a tight lid on this latest discovery. The last thing they needed was for someone to leak information to the press; a media circus would not help their investigation. He felt giddy, excited; when they'd first uncovered the treasure on that U-boat, he'd felt the same swooping sensation in his gut, but then it had been tempered by the imminent danger posed by Adler (and unstable TNT. Can't forget the TNT). Now, when he thought about that seemingly-lost-forever-but-actually_-saved_ hoard of masterpieces, his feelings were a convoluted, tangled mess because of Neal's role in all of it, that quite took away his appreciation for the art. _But now was not the time. _He forcibly shelved those thoughts, and focused on the case in front of him, on another lost treasure that might have finally, _finally_ been found.

Clearing his throat, he addressed the faces turned expectantly towards him, "A lost painting has recently been recovered..." He trailed off, not certain how to proceed.

"Please, don't keep us in suspense," Neal raised an inquiring brow, even as he leaned back in his chair and tossed a paper ball once more into the air (Peter noticed he'd picked a chair that put his back to the windows, but since it was, incidentally, Neal's usual chair, it could mean nothing).

Deep breath. Like ripping a Band-Aid off, right? Best to just get it out there. "It's 'The Just Judges,' the missing panel from 'The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb'."

Some faces looked back at him with polite interest, just another piece of art to them. He reminded himself that there were whole spheres of white collar crimes that did not require any art appreciation whatsoever. Other faces perked up, like they smelled fresh coffee in the air, or their favorite song just came on the radio. A few, Neal's included, seemed to be experiencing the same bolt from the blue that had struck him; Neal was the first to recover from his shock. His posture relaxed from its rigid attention, but he did not resume tossing anything in the air. "Sure it is. Oh, that reminds me; Mozzie wanted me to ask you if you were interested in buying a bridge. He's got a local one he could get you a great deal on."

Peter looked him straight in the eyes, trying to convey his sincerity through sheer optic willpower (he wasn't sure he succeeded, but Neal stopped leaning back, so he counted it as a win). "No joke. Authenticators are looking at it now, under the highest security in the utmost secrecy. People, this could be the big one."

"That panel's been missing since 1934. Peter, the Ghent Altarpiece is the most frequently stolen painting of all time."

"I am aware of that, yes." Personally, he felt that having twenty-four individual panels increased one's odds, like buying a whole ribbon of raffle tickets to a cat-burglar convention.

Neal, apparently, was not quite finished yet, "It's been looted in three different wars, buried, dismembered, smuggled - "

"Yes, we get the picture," he tried to interrupt, but Neal overrode him.

"Illegally sold, censored, hidden, attacked by iconoclasts, forged - " Peter rolled his eyes upwards." - Hunted by both the Nazis and Napoleon, used as a diplomatic tool, ransomed, rescued by Austrian double-agents, and stolen on seven separate occasions."

"I take it you're familiar with the painting," he commented wryly, ceding the floor to Neal with a wave of his arm.

Neal's eyes were alight with a feverish excitement, "This piece is the fulcrum between the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, the world's first major oil painting; it's van Eyck's masterwork. 'The Just Judges' panel was taken from the Saint Bavo Cathedral in Belgium and held ransom for a million francs. The Bishop agreed, but he couldn't pull together the full million. The police pressured him to only offer less than a quarter of the full ransom; the thief dropped correspondence, kept his prize, and it hasn't been seen since. Allegedly, Arsène Goerdertier, stockbroker and amateur artist, confessed on his deathbed that he took the painting, and that only he knew where it was. Then he died before he could tell anyone. It's going to be displayed, right? Before it gets sent back to Belgium? When and where?"

Peter heaved a sigh. This was going to be more difficult than he thought. "There is a full media blackout on this. Even within the Bureau we're limiting the number of people who know, so talk to no one about this who is not sitting in this room right now. They haven't even told me where it is now, or who's looking at it."

"Peter, this is _international_ headline news. Why the conspiracy routine? Even if they were afraid it's another forgery, the papers would eat it up - nothing sells news like a little intrigue." For a man who kept so many secrets, Neal seemed rather personally affronted by the hush up.

"Because it is evidence in an ongoing murder investigation" he dropped the file he'd been holding onto the table. "Ezra Gray, sixty-two years old, resident of Queens, was found dead in his apartment earlier today, stabbed in the chest." The glossy photos sent over from NYPD showed an elderly man with a goatee and mustache lying on his back, arms crookedly splayed to the sides, one hand curled around a chicken egg. Blood pooled around the wound to his heart. "We've got people from homicide working their own angles. Our job is to find out where the painting came from, and if possible, where it's been this whole time. Anything that might explain why a sociology teacher was killed in his apartment and a priceless piece of lost religious art left next to his body. We have Belgian cooperation on this; they're sending over what records they have for us to go through. I'm sorry to say, it looks like it will be a lot. Apparently, their attorney general has a 2000 page file, not including all the 'tips' they receive yearly, so I want to see good teamwork on this one."

"Why is it that even the exciting, paradigm-shifting cases have so much paperwork?"

Peter ignored Neal's muttered comment and tried to instill some energy back into the wilting group. "But! Before we get started on that homework, we're going to take a field trip to the scene of the crime. Get ready to move out, people."

* * *

Peter glanced around his office one last time to make sure everything was in order before he left, striding quickly across the bullpen. He felt a prickle on the back of his neck as he stepped through the glass doors, and turned back just once to look out the large office windows, towards the glum gray horizon, and wondered what Neal saw when he looked out. Movement caught his eye, but it was only three birds flying by in quick succession. Then, with a ding, the elevator doors slid open, and Special Agent Peter Burke was on the case.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

Source for most of the Ghent Altarpiece information comes from Noah Charney's _Stealing the Mystic Lamb_: The True Story of the World's Most Coveted Masterpiece (2010), as well as "Ten Missing Treasures You Should Really Be Looking For!" by Ethan Trex (_mental_floss_, May-June 2012)

Thank you for reading! Any questions or comments, feel free to drop a review or PM me, but PLEASE, no spoilers for the second half of season 4, I have not seen past "Vested Interest" yet.


	2. Chapter 2

The apartment was small, and technically it was neat, with nothing out of place. However, 'Everything in its place and a place for everything' could not disguise the number of knick-knacks and chotchkies, white elephants and curios the man had collected, making the place feel cluttered and messy, despite the ruler-straight alignment of said knick-knacks. He wondered why anyone would ever need more than one cuckoo clock in a single room, until he saw the workbench in the far corner of the room, covered with cogs and gears and various tools that, had they been placed in the hands of a dentist, would have been truly terrifying. The wall to his left was covered with bookcases, an organized conglomeration of sociology textbooks and detective fiction (as well as a carved antler collection, several snow globes, a dented trumpet, and an incomplete encyclopedia set). Neal studiously avoided looking where the body had been (fortunately the coroner had already been by), instead walking the perimeter of the room to examine what art there was.

A low dial tone sounded from the phone, lying on the floor like a beached whale, shiny and black and desperately out of place, its cord winding back to its cradle on the wall. Neal frowned thoughtfully at it, then turned to regard the splatters of blood across the opposite wall; Peter hastened to set him at ease, reading the tension in his shoulders, "Forensics took one look at the blood under a microscope, said it's not mammalian - probably bird or reptile - and dropped it to the bottom of their To-Do list."

Neal gave a small nod, turning to address Peter, "You said he was found with an egg in his hand?"

"Hard-boiled," Peter confirmed.

"Was it his left hand?"

"It was. Do you have something?" A lead was a lead, and right now Peter was on the verge of tearing his hair out at the impossibility of their task. As out of place and surreal as the egg was, its very uniqueness might narrow things down.

"Oscar Lievens, childhood friend of Arsène Goedertier. He died suddenly a few years after Goedertier; though the cause of death was attributed to an ulcer, there was a lot of speculation going around at the time, people trying to figure out if he'd known where the painting was. One weekend detective wrote that he died with an egg in his left hand, the phone off the hook, and the walls splattered with blood. She never gave a source for her information, though, and most consider it her fanciful imagination."

"And now the painting's resurfaced, and the killer is imitating an exaggerated death scene associated with the original theft -"

"Did you just say '_eggs-_agerated'?"

"No. No, I did not."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite positive. If I may..?"

"Go ahead."

"I think we can definitely rule out our killer not knowing the value of the painting, if they know so much obscure lore and conspiracy theory. We've been operating under the assumption that Mr. Gray owned the painting, since it doesn't make sense to bring the painting in with them to commit a murder and leave it behind, whether they knew the value of it or not."

"If they knew how much it was worth, it doesn't make sense that they'd leave it behind, either."

"If they took it, they'd have a helluva time trying to fence it. If you - "

"Allegedly."

"Right, right, allegedly. If you allegedly had a priceless treasure lost to the sands of time, could you really just...hold on to it? Keep it somewhere and never spend it or reveal it or tell anyone about it?" He suspected he was babbling. This conversation has just gone in a direction he was quite unprepared to go, especially here, now, while they were working, and the fact that he was the one to bring it up made him wonder what the hell his inner psyche was doing. Because it was still Too Soon to talk about the treasure, no matter how many 'allegedlies' they buried it under - the betrayal hurt more than the crime, in any case.

Before Neal could answer, Jones leaned into view around the door frame to the bedroom, "Peter, you need to see this."

* * *

'This' was a blue cardboard filing box. Inside the box were obituaries, hundred of obituaries, clipped from newspapers and arranged in chronological order.

"That's...creepy." Neal muttered.

"Morbidly creepy," Peter agreed, flipping through a stack of aged yellow paper. A cursory glance through the names and occupations of the deceased yielded no commonality, no underlying pattern. "How old is the oldest one?"

He felt more than saw Neal edge away from the box, but decided not to comment.

Jones spoke up, answering his question promptly, "The earliest is from 1947, clipped from a paper here in New York."

"And our guy was, what, 62? Born in 1950."

Jones nodded. "So somebody else started the collection. Or he dug up many-years-old papers from somewhere, to...clip obits. That is seriously messed up."

There was something distinctly unsettling about being faced with so many notices of mortality, like walking in a graveyard. But instead of insensate granite, the names were printed, ink on paper (_Newsprint_, his mind whispered, _like a story in his beloved Sunday paper_). Instead of open space and landscaped lawn separating the final resting places of the dearly departed, flimsy pieces of paper were pressed together in stacks, one against another, and kept in a box under an old man's bed. It made him feel vaguely nauseous. He looked up, looked away and for something familiar, but Neal had already disappeared into parts unknown. Well, he corrected himself, looking out through the doorway, disappeared into the living room, and was no doubt looking for a diamond in the rough, a valuable antique amidst the garage sale flotsam. Neal glanced at him over his shoulder as he approached.

"Any other priceless lost relics?" It was worth asking.

Neal snorted, "Hardly. This was a man who collected bottlecaps, you do realize that, right? There's nothing else in this room or the bedroom. Admittedly, I haven't checked the kitchen cabinets yet; he could still be hiding the Grail behind his ceramic dinnerware."

"Have you found where 'The Just Judges' was kept, if it was kept here at all?" Neal just looked smug, his eyebrows eloquence enough. "Of course, why do I even ask," he gestured for Neal to lead the way, which he did with great aplomb.

"As you know, its disappearance in 1934 was followed by a ransom note; when the church, following directions from the police force, did not repay the full ransom, the painting was never recovered. Over the course of their correspondence with the thief, they received a number of letters, all signed with 'D.U.A.' No one could figure out what the initials stood for, though some speculated that they were an acronym for the hiding place. Evidently Mr. Gray kept up with his conspiracy theories." As he spoke, he led Peter around the various ERT personnel to a print on the wall which Peter recognized as a van Gogh. "A painting of a factory - specifically, van Gogh's _Factory at Asnières_. Or, to put it another way, _l'Usine à Asnières_."

"Derière l'Usine à Asnières - He hid it behind the painting?" He knew he mangled the pronunciation horribly (he never claimed he could speak French!) but he could not find it in himself to care.

"Not quite. Any good thief worth his alleged salt would check behind all the paintings, regardless of their subject matter. Look again."

Peter peered at the print of a painting, trying to see it the way Neal had. "'Behind the factory'...In the painting, there's a yellow building in the background."

Neal's blinding smile told him he'd got it in one, as he took him by the elbow and steered him over to the workbench in the corner, covered with the half-completed skeleton of a cuckoo clock. Over the wooden table hung several completed timepieces, including a yellow house with a green roof that exactly matched the colors of the building in the painting.

"It's a simple four-disc combination lock - guess being a clockmaker doesn't automatically make you a great locksmith. Although maybe he was just a mediocre clockmaker as well. You turn the minute hand," he demonstrated, expertly manipulating the delicate black arrow with one finger, "and it opens right up." With a click, the entire front of the cuckoo clock opened outward, revealing the hollow insides of the pseudo-clock, and a shiny brass doorknob sticking out of the wall. At a gesture from Neal, he reached in, turned the knob, and pulled; a section of wall, the seams of which had been invisible to him a moment ago, pulled free from the surrounding wall like a newly-christened boat pulling away from its mooring, a graceful glide of great gravitas. The secret compartment was just large enough to contain 'The Just Judges,' and not a centimeter more. He closed the wall, whistling low in appreciation as the seams vanished as though they had never been. As a trail of clues went, it was elegant, though short, and he still had to wonder if it was the most secure hiding place.

"Wouldn't people notice it was not a real clock, and was in fact glued to the wall?"

"One clock, surrounded by all these others, none of which show the correct time? Anyone turning the place over would most likely give the clocks a miss - they'd have to break them open to see if there was anything valuable inside, which is a lot of effort for a low chance of payoff, especially since he wasn't a known gem hoarder. Besides, people generally keep their valuables somewhere accessible, not hidden in cuckoo clocks where they'd be very difficult to retrieve." He grinned, and Peter thought it could have been a little less smug, "That's what I found. Did you get anything?"

Peter sighed and ran his fingers through his hair."Just the obituaries. I'll have Jones and Diana look for any connections to Gray, starting with the most recent and working backwards."

"Do you think it could be a lead?"

"More like an avenue of research. I know it is impossible for him to be linked to _all_ of them - the dates don't work out - so it is entirely possible that he's not connected to any of them." He watched the going-ons of the evidence team, meticulously and methodically dissecting the apartment. The guy working nearest to them caught his eye, dusting for fingerprints on some neatly stacked envelopes on an endtable. "I don't know why a guy would collect obituaries. If there is a connection to his killer to be found, it will probably be with a sudden death, an unresolved crime, or a young death. Going peacefully in your sleep doesn't incite vengeance."

"He was a teacher for fifteen years; he would have had a lot of students in that time." Neal flipped his hat back onto his head, "Honestly, Peter, I don't know what more I can do here." Neal was being humble. That twigged one of the minor addenda to his List.

"Neal." he said firmly, testing his suspicions.

"Yes?" _Much _too guileless.

"The painting is being kept in a secure location. Ah!" he held up a finger to forestall Neal's interruption, "A secure location to which an alleged art thief will certainly not be given access."

"But Peter!"

"No buts! If it makes you feel any better, they aren't going to give me access either."

"Unsurprisingly, that does not help."

Peter sighed. "You're right, though; there isn't much more we can do, and with so many people here, it's pretty crowded." The guy he'd watched earlier stopped dusting, and was casually perusing some framed photographs. "We should go. But before we do, there's one last thing I need to take care of."

Walking over to the crouching guy in an FBI jacket, he pulled out his ID badge, "Special Agent Peter Burke. And you are?"

Bemused, the techie straightened up to look at Peter with dark eyes. "Can I help you?"

"You can help by showing some ID. Now, I certainly don't know everyone on the ERT by name, but a lot of these faces are familiar, except yours."

"So...you came over and introduced yourself to be neighborly?" The man asked archly with such a complete lack of sarcasm that it was highly suspect.

"Something like that," Peter answered with a tight-lipped smile.

"Since you were so kind as to give me your name," he stood and brushed his hands off on his pants, "I shall give you mine in return. Mason Verdanse, the First, Last, and Only."

Peter shook the offered hand, but gripped it tighter when the time customarily came to let go. "Do you think after all my years on the job I wouldn't be able to recognize a ringer? You do a good job of acting like you belong, don't get me wrong. And I know how far that can get you; I work with him after all," he gestured towards Neal standing unobtrusively at his elbow, "But you don't know the first thing about the proper protocols for collecting evidence. You don't _dust _for fingerprints on paper - it's porous, the lab's got some chemical you need to use - I bet you're just copying what you saw on television - _C.S.I_., am I right? Now, I believe I asked for some identification."

Instead of being alarmed or worried at being found out, the interloper grinned widely and turned to address Neal, "Boy, you sure picked a quick one."

As far as responses went, that one left a sour taste in Peter's mouth, and the voice at the back of his head groaned, rolled its figurative eyes upward, and said _oh no here we go again. _Out loud, he asked,"Do you two know each other?"

Neal looked genuinely startled, but since he was Neal, that did not count for much. "Peter, I swear to you, I've never seen this man before in my life." He seemed quite fervent, though, and Peter believed him.

Verdanse clucked his tongue in disagreement. "Wrong on both counts. Fortunately for you, two wrongs make a right."

Peter knew he should have just let that one go, he really should not engage - "No, they don't."

"I've heard it both ways," Verdanse flapped a dismissive hand.

"ID?" Peter asked again. With exaggerated care, Verdanse reached into his jacket pocket, wincing as he pulled out the small leather book. Peter plucked the ID from his hand and handed it to Neal, who slipped it out of its leather case to tip it back and forth with intense scrutiny, as though panning for gold.

"The inks are very well mixed; I could not have done them better myself. But the paper feels…off." He hesitated, snapping the card through the air, "I'm not sure what kind he used, but it's too light. Correct stiffness, but too light, and I've never seen this particular tooth before." Peter took the card back from him and looked closely. It did indeed have a strange interlocking grain.

Peter slipped the fake ID into an evidence bag, grinning, "So, would you like to try telling me again who you are, and what you're doing here. Better yet," he brought out his pair of handcuffs, "Let's continue this in my office."


	3. Chapter 3

By the time they made it back to the FBI office, suspect in tow, the light drizzle of the morning had at last capitulated to the whims of whatever higher power controlled the weather, who wanted this day to be as wet and windy as possible. They did not, in fact, use Peter's office, instead making use of one of the interrogation rooms. Slouching, Verdanse seemed well at ease in the uncomfortable metal chair, in the center of the FBI New York headquarters, with his hands cuffed together in front of him.

Neal, looking nauseous and unsettled, was staring fixedly at the man's tie, which Peter noticed was bright orange and patterned with images of goats in trees. The man's face was tanned and wrinkled like old leather, and his eyes were so dark they looked black. His eyebrows, Peter noted with some amusement, had been singed at some time in the past and had not grown back quite right.

Before the silence could grow into a power play, Peter dropped into the opposite seat and opened the interrogation, "So, would you like to tell me why you impersonated a federal agent, at a closed crime scene no less? Because committing felonies at murder scenes doesn't do anyone any favors."

"Felony. There was just the one."

Peter heaved an exasperated sigh, "I hope you understand the severity of your situation. It is in your best interest to cooperate."

"Got any grub?"

Peter told him, in the most civil, courteous way he knew, the way he had been trained as an FBI agent - because the Bureau had _standards, _as well as a reputation - that there _ain't no such thing as a free lunch_ (something he felt Neal still struggled with sometimes, but at least he was getting better).

Like flipping a switch, Verdanse's smile dropped and he was suddenly huffy and indignant. "You can't treat me this way! Depriving your prisoners of nourishment!? Uncalled for, you condescending tyrant! You knavish nincompoop! You - "

Peter cut him off before his tirade could get any more ridiculous, "You haven't even been in our custody for an hour. You're not starving."

"I'm hypoglycemic. I _neeeed_ to eat." Jesus, now the man was whining. Peter rubbed a hand over the bridge of his nose, where he could feel a headache forming.

"I'll get someone to bring you something from the vending machine. And if I do this, will you cooperate?" He looked towards the two-way mirror, where he knew Jones was watching, and gestured apologetically for his request to be carried out.

The suspect smacked his lips, "Bribery, eh? Been a while since I had bribery for lunch." And he refused to say another word until he had a bag of Skittles clutched tightly in his little claws.

Jones also handed Peter, in a manner that said quite clearly he knew fetching food was beneath him, but he would do it anyway because Peter had asked, half a cheeseburger someone had left in the fridge, and no one had claimed. Peter did not know what he expected when he handed over the grease-paper-wrapped sandwich - he did not think Verdanse would use half a burger in a nefarious bid for freedom, but he was prepared for anything - and while the very sincere 'thank you' was a pleasant surprise after he'd kicked up such an ornery fuss, Peter would never have predicted that he would then push the entire burger into his mouth, chew six times, and swallow. He boggled, and while he had any number of pithy comebacks available on the tip of his tongue, what came out instead was, "You're welcome." He waited a moment to see if the burger would reappear, but when it did not, he decided to get down to brass tacks.

"Now. Care to tell us what happened?"

"Alright, I'll tell you what I know." He leaned forward conspiratorially, low voice warbling into the mic, "There was a thief, robbed a museum last Tuesday afternoon, three o'clock on the dot. You might not have heard about it; it was a small museum, the Wisteria Gallery, and he didn't get very far - only three blocks before his car shut down and wouldn't start. Do you know what he said as he was being led to the squad car?"

There was a pause, as it took a moment for them to realize he was not being rhetorical and was actually waiting to be prompted to continue. Neal, looking resigned, took up the gauntlet, "What did he say?"

" 'I needed da Monet to buy Degas and make the van Gogh.' " Peter stared as he broke out in throaty laughter that sounded like _quork quork quork_.

"Funny. Speaking of art, what did you think of Mr. Gray's collection?" There wasn't a good way of asking if he knew about a painting that no one was supposed to know about, without admitting to the existence of such a painting.

"Shiny."

"Shiny?"

"It suited him very well."

_Aha. _"Did you know the deceased well?" Something flared in Verdanse's eyes, breaking the mask of geneality he'd maintained throughout their conversation.

"You could say that." The mask was back, but the dare, the challenge was written there as plain as day.

"I bet you'd say that I _could_ say a lot of things. Would any of them be true?" He made it his business to read people, and he was a damn good judge of character, if he did say so himself. Maybe it was not an ingrained reflex to figure out a person's tells, but he could certainly find them if he looked. Similarly, over the course of his short acquaintance with their esteemed guest, he'd gotten a pretty good feel for the guy's character - it began with Twisty, and ended with Word Games.

For his part, Verdanse seemed delighted that Peter had cottoned on to his plan, because his grin was back full-force, as wide and genuine as any con-man's, which was quite wide and exceptionally genuine. "Depends. How much would you bet?" A silver coin danced across the back of his fingers, before disappearing again. Peter could feel his headache growing. Patting down a suspect at his arrest never did seem to mean much if the man in question was an accomplished pick-pocket.

For the next half hour, Mason Verdanse continued to talk without saying anything. Peter was abstractly grateful that the man was not in politics, even if that meant he was some sort of con man. The world was a safer place.

He could be blunt and vague in equal measure, answering some questions with a "yes" or "no," which would have been unambiguous answers except he tended to use them when responding to questions including the word "or," and answering other questions with vague generalities, or, when he could manage them, hackneyed puns.

"Where were you between the hours of 5 and 8 last night?"

"Here and there."

"Can you be more specific?"

"Here and there, out and about, far and wide, hither and thither and yon, up, up, and away."

"That's not actually being more specific."

"It answers your question."

Peter pressed and he evaded, around and around they went. Peter was beginning to get the idea that their guy had been planning to investigate his friend's death (Peter was almost certain by this point that they had been friends in some capacity or other), and that was why he had been skulking about the crime scene. The man was in the middle of a meandering explanation of how he had known his friend had been murdered, which Peter had the worrying suspicion was nothing but a Shaggy Dog story, when they were interrupted by a knock on the door, Diana's timely arrival preventing the delivery of an underwhelming punch line.

Diana stepped into the room holding a short stack of files in her hands. "Boss, his fingerprint results came back - all five of them."

"Five possible matches?"

She shook her head, "Five _exact_ matches, one for each finger. The examiners can't explain it."

Bemused, Peter took the files and started reading. "Rosalyn Walker," he glanced over the file, "Says he's a performer, also known as the 'Gentleman Escape Artist.' "

"He's the world record holder for most handcuff escapes in one minute, and in one hour," Neal put in brightly. "He also doesn't look anything like... our friend here."

All three of them looked down at the suspect's hands, which were clasped in front of him on the table, still handcuffed together. Peter felt a sense of foreboding in his gut.

"What other prints came up?" Neal tried to read over his shoulder.

"Al Capone." He turned to address Diana, "Why are Al Capone's fingerprints in AFIS?"

"Maybe a probie got bored one day?" she shrugged.

"Maybe…but that does not explain why Vladimir Mayakovsky's prints came up."

Neal stopped trying to read the files, and leaned back in his seat. "The Russian poet and satirist? Well, he was imprisoned once, they could have taken his prints then."

"_In Russia. _His file also says he died in 1930."

"And yet his work lives on. They named a town after him, you know."

"If we could stay on topic, please?" He flipped to the next folder in the stack, "Her Royal Highness, Eléonore of Belgium, fifth in line for the Belgian throne, and…" he paused, and continued in a lower voice, "Neal Caffrey." The knot of foreboding in his gut tightened into something more akin to dread.

"That was his thumb," Diana pointed out helpfully.

"Thank you, Diana." The glare he turned towards their suspect was positively withering - their suspect, who throughout this exchange had been alternating his gaze between the window and Neal while humming a jaunty tune under his breath. Peter did not know what kind of back door or pull this guy had to pull this stunt, but it had the potential for a very serious security breach. Which raised the question of why he would let them know about. Just to rub it in their faces? He could not have known that Neal would be there for his arrest (for that matter, he should not have known there was a murder at all. Now Peter had to worry about a mole on top of everything else), so it could have been to tweak the nose of the FBI, and Caffrey's prints were picked out of all the Bureau personnel at random - just the sort of coincidence he didn't believe in. Watching the two of them watch each other - one openly, the other surreptitiously - he had to reopen the possibility that they knew each other, even if it was by reputation only.

"Neal." For the first time in what felt like a long time he had his C.I.'s undivided attention. "Do you know who this guy is?"

A shaky nod, not uncertain, only hesitant, "Yes. He's Raven."

" 'Raven'? Like 'The Vulture'? What is it with these hacker types and their bird monikers?" The man's bird puns suddenly made a lot more sense.

"He's not..." Neal made an abortive movement with his hand that Peter was not sure how to interpret. When he continued, he spoke with the cadence of someone repeating something they had been told, "Raven, who is, was, and will always be. He's a...Magician." That sounded similar to Verdanse's self-introduction of 'first, last, and only.'

"I've never heard of him."

Neal looked pained, "He's more of a behind-the-scenes kind of guy."

"A behind-the-scenes magician? How does that work?" If the guy did movie effects, Neal could have just said so.

"Better than you might think," Verdanse- _The Raven, how unoriginal_ - cut in. "As fun as this has been, I think it's time for me to go." He stood up; Peter stood up with him, Neal close behind.

"Did you miss the part where you are under arrest, have the right to remain silent, the right to an attorney? Any of this ringing any bells? I know I must have mentioned the bit about committing a felony at least seven times."

"Nine."

Peter blinked; the correction had come in stereo, Verdanse and Neal answering at the same time. Verdanse grinned and Neal fidgeted. But the grin was short-lived, and the glare he turned on Peter was heated.

"You _will_ let me go."

"Listen Obi-Wan, you are _under arrest_. You could have been corrupting a crime scene, and add to that the fact that I have no doubt you pose a very serious flight risk, I don't think your chances of getting out on bail are very good."

"You have no evidence."

"No evidence?" Peter scoffed, "You have a federal agent as a witness! Not only that, we have your forgery right here." He meant to brandish the evidence bag condemningly, but as soon as he pulled it out he knew something was wrong. _Too light, much too light_. Resting at the bottom of the bag, alone and oblivious to his ire, was a single black feather. Tight-lipped, Peter frowned, having no compunction to keep his displeasure unknown. "Cute. That's real cute. Because you're Raven, right? That is _tampering with physical evidence_."

"How could I have done it? I've been handcuffed this whole time."

"I've seen Neal's 'magic' before, and your little trick does not impress me now." He briefly made eye contact with Neal, hoping to communicate that yes, he was still impressed with Neal's tricks, and no, Neal should not let his pride interrupt. Thankfully, Neal was content to merely glare at the back of his head, and kept his peace.

Verdanse, however, did not.

"Little trick?! _Little trick!_ Do you know who you're dealing with? I ought to throw you out the window for that insult." 'Mercurial' was a good word to describe Verdanse's mood shifts, but 'completely off his rocker' was also suitable. There was just no reasoning with some people.

"I'm sorry if I...offended...you, but I really can't let you go." Peter managed to get out. This was getting beyond ridiculous.

Verdanse's stern, unyielding figure turned all its not-inconsiderable focus onto Peter. "Agent, I have just lost a close friend. In addition, I am needed to make arrangements for my son's funeral. You _will_ let me go."

That brought Peter up short. He continued, more slowly, choosing his words with care, "I'm sorry to hear about your son. We can arrange for you to be escorted to the service. But you will have to delegate making the arrangements - you are entitled to your lawyer, though most use that for their legal defense."

As Peter spoke, using his best bedside manner on the off-chance that there really was a deceased son, Verdanse's face grew livid, dark with something nameless. Peter felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Away over Manhattan, through the curtains of rain, lightning flashed, appropriately ominous.

"Agent Burke, you are a monster!"

Before he had the chance to respond, Neal slammed his hand on the table, an emphatic cry bursting forth, "He is a good man!"

Peter blinked at him, surprised by the outburst. "Neal, I'm flattered, but that's ... not how you play 'good cop, bad cop'."

Neal did not appear to hear him, instead staring down Verdanse like a cornered cat staring down a rapid dog.

"He is a good man." Neal repeated, more softly, more controlled, but no less fervently. The way the whites of his eyes caught the light made him seem panicked. Or manic. One of the two.

"... you didn't get this bent out of shape when he called me a nincompoop." Neal's belief in him was something he cherished, something that bolstered him on the days he felt he was being driven to an early grave by a reckless, well-intentioned con-man with brains enough to get him into the deepest trouble imaginable but without the smarts to stay out of it in the first place. He could recognize that Neal's belief in him was not quite the same as Neal's trust in him - even though a drug-addled Neal had once claimed Peter was the only person he trusted, that trust was not enough, apparently, to warrant honesty, which led him to believe that Neal had a pretty screwy definition of trust.

"He holds your leash; of course you would say that. How could you allow your wings to be clipped in such a matter? Have you no pride?"

Neal trembled visibly. "I defy thee." Which, all things considered, was a pretty strange thing for Neal to say.

"As long as you are a prisoner and he is your jailer, I cannot believe that anything you say is not spoken under duress. Or else you are trying to charm leniency or even freedom out of him. I don't blame you; it's what I would do. I think you're wasting your time, though - he's not some naïve fool who's been living in a clamshell all his life. He's as blinded as the rest of them, a cold numb fish, and you are his dogsbody! He should be taught a lesson." Peter did not think he had ever heard that expression used _not_ euphemistically as a threat. Once again, Neal beat him to the punch.

"For what crime? Leave him be!"

"He is the one who has chained you, insulted me and imprisoned me in this building, keeping me from my son."

"…you could leave any time you wanted." Neal's mulish response was spoken softly, and without eye contact.

"It's the principle of the thing!" He turned to Peter, who was still trying to get over the 'leave any time he wanted' comment. "Peter Burke, you mark my words, and mark them well. There will be a reckoning!"

"I swear to you, he is a _good_ man." If this was secret conman lingo, it was like none he'd ever heard before.

Verdanse blinked once, pursed his lips, and cocked his head to the side. "That's three times you've said that." He drummed his fingers on the table, "What are you willing to swear by? Your life?" Neal looked like he was about to agree, but he was not given the chance, "What about his life? If he is, as you say, a 'good man,' then let him prove it."

He looked Peter in the eye, his word falling into place like a closing portcullis, "There will be three tests by which I will judge you. The boy seems quite attached to you. I hope for his sake you pass." He then turned to stare at the rivulets of rain running down the window, immovable as closed castle gates, barred, locked, and so thick not even a battering ram could get through, and refused to say anything more. Secretly grateful to be able to get away from the crazy person, Peter left the interrogation room, indicating that Verdanse should be taken to the detainment facilities. He dutifully ignored the shiver that kept running up his spine when he thought of his parting words, and ignored the way he couldn't get them out of his head.

Before rejoining the rest of the White Collar team, he stopped his C.I. - _friend, partner, brother-in-arms_ - in the corridor. "I don't know how he pulled that trick with his fingerprints, but I can't ignore the symbolism. Neal, does he have you under his thumb?"

"What? Peter, art has symbolism - this is the real world. You're beginning to sound like Mozzie."

"Life imitates art," Peter countered, remembering a young lovestruck man who read the symbolism of a bottle.

"Now you're _really_ starting to sound like Moz, if you're paraphrasing Wilde."

The easy back-and-forth was doing wonders for his nerves, "There's no blackmail? No extortion?"

"Peter, be reasonable. You'd be equally worked up if my print came up as a match for any of his fingers. And I don't know why my prints came up at all. At least I'm in good company."

"You think Al Capone was good company?"

* * *

Author's Note: In the U.S., where this story takes place, van Gogh is pronounced "van-GOH." This is not a mispronounciation, this is how American dictionaries list it (there are variable pronouniations within both English and Dutch. If there can be only one "right way," it's probably be the way he himself most likely said it, which used the Brabant dialect of Dutch, according to the Wiki).

The way I remembered the joke, it read "...Degas to make the van Gogh," relying on a mispronounciation of Degas, which is not typical, in the U.S. or anywhere else as far as I know, but corny jokes will be corny jokes no matter how many times you send them back to school to get a proper education. (I'd apologize, except I'm not really sorry.) After some ruminating, I realized that if I followed Degas with a vowel, it allows the 's' to be pronounced...so there you have it.

Acronyms:

AFIS - Automated Fingerprint Identification System

ERT - Evidence Recovery Team


	4. Chapter 4

Peter was not sure how it had happened, but somehow, between fielding irate phone calls to the Belgian embassy, trying to explain why they'd had a hit on Her Royal Highness's fingerprints and soothing frazzled tempers already frustrated by the detainment of a Belgian national treasure by the F.B.I. as evidence (their elation at the discovery of said treasure evened things out a bit, but the resulting discussions tended to swing erratically between profound thanks and pointed indignation, and only added to his mounting headache), and making sure there were enough translators working at the office to get the Belgian files into coherent English so that everyone could share in the joy of copious paperwork, Neal had invited himself over for dinner.

Neal was a regular presence at the Burkes' for dinner. The number of times he was invited over beat out the number of times he invited _himself _over by the narrowest of margins. Peter would have to ask if there would be enough for Neal, because Elle had said she was making ratatouille, and while they usually had leftovers when she did, Elle was an event planner by trade and it was a therefore a point of professional pride for her to be a good hostess. She'd cut down her own (and Peter's) portions before she left a guest with less than a full plate. Even if the guest was a regular presence who came over uninvited almost-more-often-than-not.

In the days to come, he would look back on that moment, standing on the front stoop with Neal in the fading drizzle, fishing his keys out of his pocket and hiding a smile, and wonder how he could ever have thought it was an ordinary evening.

But his gut gave no indication that anything was amiss, nothing to herald the dramatic revelations that were to come. In fact, it was this severe lack of reaction that made him think, for the longest time, that he was only dreaming. Because surely, certainly he should have felt _something_, some tingling of the hairs on the back of his neck to tell him to be alert, pay attention. Instead, there was only relief, in anticipation of winding down a hectic day with a home-cooked meal with the people he cared most about.

The hinges creaked a little as he opened the door, and he made a mental note to get some WD-40 on those when he had the time (he'd probably have to make time, somehow). Satchmo came to greet him at the door, and the lights were on in the living room and the kitchen, but he didn't see or hear Elle anywhere.

"Honey, I'm home."

Neal raised an eyebrow at his greeting, but said nothing as he took his hat off and set in on the hat rack in the hall, which Elle had put up for that purpose. Beyond that, silence was his only greeting. "Elle?" He called up the stairs, even as he caught sight of her purse and phone resting on the coffee table, as they usually did when she came home from a long day with her clients. Memory pinged something in his brain, coming home to a house empty of meaning, Elle gone, and he'd known, then, even before arriving at the house. He hadn't wanted to believe, because Keller was a rat bastard who toyed with people, and Elle was his pillar of strength, his _raison d'être_, and - And then he'd been home, and the world was off its axis, it had to be, no way was that the way the world turned, it just didn't happen that way. He was an FBI agent, he knew the risks he took, but they were _his_ to take, and though he hated that he made Elle worry, he put himself in danger to catch the bad guys, and Elle had no part in that (usually).

He shook off the nightmarish memories. The ordeal was over, done with, and they'd both moved past it (mostly). Maybe Elle was in the bedroom, and hadn't heard him, or in the bathroom, or…anywhere. But he remembered Verdanse's strange threat, about tests, and he wanted nothing more than to hold his wife in his arms and breathe in her scent and know that she was safe, safe and home and with him, for ever and for always.

He checked upstairs, looking for any sign of where she might have gone, any note she might have left, something to explain why she would leave the house locked, and her keys and purse on the table. With every empty room his anxiety increased, so that by the time he came back downstairs to check the kitchen, he was very nearly shaking.

But to his growing dismay, Elle wasn't in the kitchen, and the silence of the house was unbroken. Too wet for crickets, the only sounds heard were the ticking of the clock on the wall, and the scratch of Satchmo at the back door, asking to be let in. Neal was standing stiff against the island counter, staring at the back door and seemingly lost in thought.

"Is it that beneath you to let the dog in?" Peter grumped, as the scratching became even more insistent. He went to let the dog in, but the first step he took was unsteady, and in the next moment Neal was there at his elbow, trying to get his attention.

"Peter!"

"Where's Elle?" he demanded. The ratatouille sat cooling on the counter, but his wife was nowhere in sight. "Elle!" he shouted at the world. It suddenly became a bit harder to breathe.

"Peter, you need to listen to me." Neal stood in front of him, filling his vision, a hand on each shoulder. He gave Peter a little shake, and then, apparently satisfied that his partner was no longer in danger of hyperventilating, he walked to the back door to let Satchmo in, who'd started whining at the door. Sixty pounds of dog bounced across the floor, but it barely registered, his attention still on Neal. "You need to listen to me, and I know it's going to be difficult, but you need to believe me as well. Elle is fine. She's safe, and she's fine. And Peter, I'm sorry, but this is going to be the hardest to swallow - she's here."

He ran a shaky hand through his hair, and allowed Neal to lead him to the couch. Something was pressed into his hands, but he lacked the energy to wonder when Neal had had time to brew a cup of coffee, instead taking deep, grateful breaths of the bracing aroma. Neal eyed him speculatively, "Maybe something stronger…" He appeared to debate with himself for a moment, before shaking his head, "Later. Once you're already… Otherwise convincing you is going to be impossible."

"Go back to where you said that Elle was fine, and that she was here."

Neal paused thoughtfully before answering, "Are you worried that something's happened to her? There isn't any evidence of trouble. Most people wouldn't immediately jump to - "

"I have that right!" Peter overrode him, suddenly furious at how blasé Neal was being about the whole business.

"Then think rationally - wait, no, don't do that. Um…" Neal Caffrey, at a loss for words. The world was definitely ending (and it was, but not in the way he thought).

"Peter, I need you here. In the present. As present as you've ever been. This is not like last time. Then, I knew Keller, and what he was capable of, and why we had to act quickly to ride to the rescue of the damsel in distress."

"Elle's never been a damsel in distress," he protested, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth at the absurdity of the image of his strong, capable wife weeping in a tower. The answering grin on Neal's face told him that that had been his intention.

"You're absolutely right, and hold onto that thought, okay? She can handle herself. Now, right now, this time, Keller's not involved, and Elizabeth is fine."

Peter's eyes narrowed, "But is she here, in this house, right now?" He could not press this point enough.

Neal fidgeted. "Ah. In a manner of speaking."

"Neal, I've had enough evasive word games for the day - no, I've had enough to last me a lifetime, but that's probably being naively optimistic. Let me get through another week before I have to deal with any more non-answers, alright? Now, do you know where she is?"

"Yes," he glanced towards the floor. It was like pulling teeth, getting answers today.

"Where?" He had patience, honest he did. He had deep, deep mines of patience, raw unrefined patient ore, enough to power the entire country with patience. He just didn't feel like sharing any of his patience with Neal at the moment.

That same shifty look to the ground, "You haven't even tried -" Peter bristled and he did not know what he was going to do next, but it was probably going to violent and very, very satisfying, but Neal realized his mistake in time to back-pedal, "What I meant was, you recognize that she's not…around…but your anxiety's made you overlook what's right in front of you."

"And what's that?"

"I just let Satchmo in from the back."

"So?"

"So, who greeted you at the door?"

In the stunned silence, he looked down, and saw, for the first time, the two yellow labs currently lounging on his living room floor.

"I'll spare you the _Hamlet_ quote, Horatio, but you have to suspend your disbelief for five minutes, that's all I ask, five minutes for me to explain."

"I remember what happened the last time I gave you time to persuade me," he said, thinking of great escapes, roadblocks and wanted posters, and a fugitive in a darkened living room.

"Do you regret it?"

"No. Never." He'd given Neal the chance to prove his innocence, trusted him enough to let him back in.

"Then trust me on this." Neal took a deep breath, and all the world was held pause in it, "One of these dogs is your wife."


End file.
